


You Can Have It

by BrighteyedJill



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Domestic Fluff, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-11
Updated: 2013-06-11
Packaged: 2017-12-14 15:15:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 516
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/838360
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BrighteyedJill/pseuds/BrighteyedJill
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Every moment they're together deepens the plans Lestrade knows may never come to pass.</p>
            </blockquote>





	You Can Have It

**Author's Note:**

> Written for nightswhisper for the prompts "fantasies" and "domesticity." Inspired by the Philip Levine poem of the same name.

 

 

Lestrade thought of a house, sometimes. Especially on rare nights like this, with Mycroft warm and solid in the darkness of his flat. When Mycroft kissed him, Lestrade held on to enough spare brain cells to fantasize. The man was always thorough; after leisurely claiming Lestrade’s mouth, he worked his way down Lestrade’s neck, then held him still by the waist while he kissed Lestrade’s bare chest, then his belly.

It wasn’t that Mycroft’s attentions weren’t enjoyable—certainly Lestrade cherished every moment of their time together and hoarded the memories of these nights like treasure. But Lestrade allowed himself, once in a while, to indulge in the possibility of something more.

While Mycroft’s hands stroked Lestrade to hardness, he thought of the house. A modest one bedroom would be enough. Though Mycroft was used to grander things, of course, it wouldn’t matter. This retreat was only for the two of them; no work, no family obligations, no spectres of the past would penetrate the walls.

Mycroft’s fingers moved inside Lestrade, sending him writhing. He clutched handfuls of the sheets and squeezed his eyes closed.

He could imagine a snug living room, two armchairs by the fire. Mycroft’s reading glasses on the table by two empty wine glasses. The clank and scream of London’s streets melted away and the gentle silence of the village at night wrapped around the warm home the two of them had made.

Lestrade pulled Mycroft close as he took him inside. Mycroft held on tight when he moved, staying near enough to plant more kisses along Lestrade’s arms and down his calf where it rested over Mycroft’s shoulder.

The bed would be extravagantly large, Lestrade decided. Comically outsized for the modest bedroom. Mycroft would allow a smile when he saw it, and drop a sly remark about Lestrade’s priorities. They would sleep together each night, free to sprawl, but never so far away that Lestrade couldn’t reach out to find Mycroft beside him.

They finished together—Mycroft with a breathless shout and Lestrade silent and open-eyed, taking in the sight of Mycroft’s pleasure.

Collapsed in a hopeless tangle, Lestrade could see the seasons changing through the window of a cramped-but-tidy kitchen: fall rolling into winter and out again to spring in a loop stretching ahead through the years.

Lestrade found Mycroft’s hand and knit their fingers together.

A phone rang. Mycroft untangled himself promptly, swung his legs over the side of the bed, and answered, “This is Holmes,” in a perfectly unruffled voice. He re-dressed as he listened, interjecting the occasional, “Mmm” or “I see.” At last, as he finished straightening his tie, he said, “I understand. Goodbye.” He stood with the phone in his hand for several silent seconds before turning to Lestrade. “I’m needed back at the office.”

Lestrade nodded against the pillow. “Will I see you at the weekend?”

“It depends on Belarus. I’ll have Anthea update you. Goodnight, Gregory.” He dropped a gentle kiss on Lestrade’s cheek and swept from the room, leaving the flat conspicuously emptier.

Lestrade closed his eyes once more, and thought of a house.


End file.
